December Park(122)

Adrian tried to speak but only wound up coughing some more. He concluded by unleashing a trail of saliva from his mouth that spooled like spaghetti in the dirt. His face was red, and his eyes leaked tears from behind his thick glasses. “Jesus. You’d think that’d be an easy habit to quit.”

Again, we laughed. It felt good. It was what we all needed.

I watched Michael messing around with the combination lock and wished that he wouldn’t be able to get it open. Then we could just hop back on our bikes and maybe even leave an anonymous phone call for the police so they— The pop was loud enough to cause a flock of nearby blackbirds to take flight. Spinning around and executing a stately bow, Michael held out the lock in one hand.

“Unbelievable,” Scott said. “I’ll never figure out how he does that.”

Behind Michael, one of the double doors opened as if pushed by invisible hands, causing him to shriek and jump into the grass. The creaking of the door reminded me of the way the eaves of the house on Worth Street groaned during a particularly bad summer storm. When I was a young and impressionable kid, Charles said they were the sounds of the monsters Dad kept in the attic. I had believed him and imagined a platoon of grotesqueries shambling about in the dark space above my bedroom ceiling, fangs dripping and claws extending from scaly reptilian paws.

Adrian clicked on his flashlight but didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to: that stupid beam of light said it all.

It was now or never.

There is a dead kid in there. We’ve found one of the missing.

Adrian went in first. I wouldn’t have guessed him to lead the charge—Scott seemed much more eager in that regard—but he was the only one of us who didn’t seem bothered by the creepy goddamn building, not to mention what ultimately waited for us within.

“Come on,” Peter said, shoving me forward. “You go next.”

“Why me?”

“Why not?”

I staggered through the open door and was immediately overcome by the motionlessness of the place. This must be what it’s like for those explorers who enter Egyptian mausoleums. The air tasted like the inside of a fireplace and smelled like a cross between old moldy newspapers and dog shit. I could taste the dust motes at the back of my throat, thick as sawdust. Whereas the Werewolf House had a wetness about it, this building was as dry and soulless as the inside of an urn.

The rest of the guys filed in behind me. Adrian moved on ahead, his flashlight’s beam playing along the walls and the floor. Scott clicked his flashlight on, too, and blasted me right in the eyes with its beam.

I swiped at him with one hand. “Cut it out.”

“Watch the floors,” Peter called to Adrian, who was moving farther ahead of us still. “If they’re weak, you could step right through ’em.”

Adrian paused halfway to the sheet-covered body. He shined his light on the floor.

“What is it?” Peter said, crossing over to him. Scott, Michael, and I followed.

“Footprints,” Adrian said.

Sure enough, the beam spotlighted a set of footprints. Adrian lifted the flashlight and followed the trail of prints across the floor. They seemed to go in a million different directions at once, leaving smudges in the thick dust.

“How many sets?” Scott asked.

Adrian shook his head. “I can’t tell if it’s one or twenty.”

“Could they be old?” I asked.

“They don’t look so old,” Adrian said.

“Do you think they might be a match for the footprints the cops found down by the river?” Scott asked. This news hadn’t made it to the newspapers or the TV stations, but I had told them about what I’d overheard when my father was on the phone.

“Beats me,” I said.

Adrian finally settled his flashlight beam on the yellow sheet across the room. Scott brought his light up and shined it on the sheet as well. Even from this distance I could still make out the profile of a human being beneath it. I could see the vague little nubs of the protruding fingers, too.

Like someone flipping a switch, my entire demeanor changed. Suddenly I wanted nothing more than to rush over to that sheet and yank it away, revealing the prize beneath. Who was it? The Demorest boy? Bethany Frost? If it was Jason Hughes, the corpse would be a year old . . .

I felt my feet move. It was less like walking and more like the floor shifting on its own, like a conveyor belt. When I reached the sheet I realized it was nothing more than an ancient white bedsheet turned yellow with age, like the pages of an old newspaper or a paperback novel. The shape of a body beneath it was undeniable. The fingers—four of them—sticking up from beneath the death shroud were mere inches from the tip of my left sneaker. Had I wanted to, I could have tapped them with my toes.

Both Scott and Adrian had their flashlights trained on the part of the covered body that was most assuredly the head.

I took a deep breath, dropped to my knees, and grabbed a fistful of the sheet.

“Jesus Christ,” someone whispered.

“Do it,” said Peter.

With a magician’s flourish, I whisked the sheet from the floor and quickly filled that part of the room with a cloud of ageless dust that swirled and seemed to glow a golden hue in the dual beams of light.

It was a nude person, the skin seeming to slough in places like a reptile’s, gray in patches like rot, its face— No, not a person. Not a real person, anyway.